a chest-thudding rhythm.
Which agreement was he referring to? The lessons ... or his word
as a gentleman of both the East and the West that he would not discuss them
with anyone?
“I take it you do not care for bonnets any more than you do
corsets,” she said frigidly.
The laughter was back in his voice. “You take it correctly.”
“What do you care for, Lord Safyre?”
“A woman, Mrs. Petre. A warm, wet, wanton woman who is not afraid
of her sexuality or ashamed of satisfying her needs.”
The
smell of benzene lingered in the library.
Ramiel picked up the pen Elizabeth Petre had used to take her notes.
“Which of the two are you, Mrs. Petre?” he murmured, lightly stroking the soft,
body-warmed metal. “A woman who is afraid of her sexuality ... or a woman who
is ashamed of satisfying her needs?”
She had small hands. Clutched between her slender fingers, the
thick, heavy pen had looked like a primitive gold phallus. The wife of the
Chancellor of the Exchequer would need both hands to fully encompass a man of
Ramiel’s size.
Memory jolted his entire body.
I do not
understand how a woman can move without hindering the actions of the man.
After her stark comments yesterday morning, he should have been
prepared for her honesty. He had not been. She had succeeded in surprising him
yet again.
How could such a naive woman generate so much sexual tension?
“El Ibn.”
Ramiel’s fingers convulsively clenched around the gold pen. Body
instinctively preparing for defense, he raised his head.
Muhamed stood behind the burgundy leather chair that Elizabeth
Petre had only moments earlier vacated. A black, hooded cloak covered the
butler’s turban and white cotton thobs.
Turquoise eyes locked with eyes so dark, they appeared to be
black.
Cornish eyes.
A cynical smile curled Ramiel’s lips.
Muhamed looked Arab but in fact was not. Ramiel looked English but
in fact was not.
Elizabeth Petre, like so many of her people, saw only what she was
prepared to see.
“What is it, Muhamed?”
“The husband did not leave the house yesterday morning. Only the
woman—Mrs. Petre. She drove away in a carriage before ten. I do not know where.
Later that evening, while she was gone, the husband came home for dinner. He
left—”
“You said he did not leave the house,” Ramiel interrupted sharply.
“Yet you say he came home for dinner.”
Muhamed’s face, still strong and muscular at the age of
fifty-three, remained impassive. “I do not know the reason for this.”
Ramiel did.
Edward Petre had spent the night with his mistress. As no doubt
Elizabeth Petre had known he did.
Where had she gone yesterday morning, to leave her house before
the fashionable hour?
Shopping?
Visiting?
Running?
No, Elizabeth Petre would not run. Either from her husband’s
infidelity or from an agreement with a bastard sheikh.
“Where did the husband go after dinner?”
“The Parliament building. He stayed there until two in the
morning. Then he returned home. He is there now.”
As Elizabeth would shortly be.
Did she and her husband keep separate bedrooms ... or did they
share the same bed?
Immediately, Ramiel repulsed the idea of Elizabeth sharing a bed
with another man. She would not be able to sneak out of the house if she did.
But that did not mean she could not join her husband in his bed.
Anger fisted inside his gut.
Elizabeth Petre knew what a climax was.
Had she learned that from her husband? Did he penetrate her cold
English reserve underneath the covers of respectability and give her a “peak”
of pleasure?
“You did not discover the identity of Edward Petre’s mistress,”
Ramiel said flatly.
Muhamed’s black eyes glittered. “No.”
“Yet you have left his house unattended. I instructed you to
follow him until you discovered who the mistress is.”
“I thought it wise to return, El Ibn.”
Ramiel was not fooled by Muhamed’s stoicism. Disapproval radiated
from his dark Cornish
Which agreement was he referring to? The lessons ... or his word
as a gentleman of both the East and the West that he would not discuss them
with anyone?
“I take it you do not care for bonnets any more than you do
corsets,” she said frigidly.
The laughter was back in his voice. “You take it correctly.”
“What do you care for, Lord Safyre?”
“A woman, Mrs. Petre. A warm, wet, wanton woman who is not afraid
of her sexuality or ashamed of satisfying her needs.”
The
smell of benzene lingered in the library.
Ramiel picked up the pen Elizabeth Petre had used to take her notes.
“Which of the two are you, Mrs. Petre?” he murmured, lightly stroking the soft,
body-warmed metal. “A woman who is afraid of her sexuality ... or a woman who
is ashamed of satisfying her needs?”
She had small hands. Clutched between her slender fingers, the
thick, heavy pen had looked like a primitive gold phallus. The wife of the
Chancellor of the Exchequer would need both hands to fully encompass a man of
Ramiel’s size.
Memory jolted his entire body.
I do not
understand how a woman can move without hindering the actions of the man.
After her stark comments yesterday morning, he should have been
prepared for her honesty. He had not been. She had succeeded in surprising him
yet again.
How could such a naive woman generate so much sexual tension?
“El Ibn.”
Ramiel’s fingers convulsively clenched around the gold pen. Body
instinctively preparing for defense, he raised his head.
Muhamed stood behind the burgundy leather chair that Elizabeth
Petre had only moments earlier vacated. A black, hooded cloak covered the
butler’s turban and white cotton thobs.
Turquoise eyes locked with eyes so dark, they appeared to be
black.
Cornish eyes.
A cynical smile curled Ramiel’s lips.
Muhamed looked Arab but in fact was not. Ramiel looked English but
in fact was not.
Elizabeth Petre, like so many of her people, saw only what she was
prepared to see.
“What is it, Muhamed?”
“The husband did not leave the house yesterday morning. Only the
woman—Mrs. Petre. She drove away in a carriage before ten. I do not know where.
Later that evening, while she was gone, the husband came home for dinner. He
left—”
“You said he did not leave the house,” Ramiel interrupted sharply.
“Yet you say he came home for dinner.”
Muhamed’s face, still strong and muscular at the age of
fifty-three, remained impassive. “I do not know the reason for this.”
Ramiel did.
Edward Petre had spent the night with his mistress. As no doubt
Elizabeth Petre had known he did.
Where had she gone yesterday morning, to leave her house before
the fashionable hour?
Shopping?
Visiting?
Running?
No, Elizabeth Petre would not run. Either from her husband’s
infidelity or from an agreement with a bastard sheikh.
“Where did the husband go after dinner?”
“The Parliament building. He stayed there until two in the
morning. Then he returned home. He is there now.”
As Elizabeth would shortly be.
Did she and her husband keep separate bedrooms ... or did they
share the same bed?
Immediately, Ramiel repulsed the idea of Elizabeth sharing a bed
with another man. She would not be able to sneak out of the house if she did.
But that did not mean she could not join her husband in his bed.
Anger fisted inside his gut.
Elizabeth Petre knew what a climax was.
Had she learned that from her husband? Did he penetrate her cold
English reserve underneath the covers of respectability and give her a “peak”
of pleasure?
“You did not discover the identity of Edward Petre’s mistress,”
Ramiel said flatly.
Muhamed’s black eyes glittered. “No.”
“Yet you have left his house unattended. I instructed you to
follow him until you discovered who the mistress is.”
“I thought it wise to return, El Ibn.”
Ramiel was not fooled by Muhamed’s stoicism. Disapproval radiated
from his dark Cornish
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